


Of Twists and Turns

by penscritch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Black City - Freeform, Golden City, Hawke in the Fade, M/M, Odyssey, The Fade, abuse of Dragon Age lore, longfic, post-Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-26 14:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penscritch/pseuds/penscritch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a black city on the edge of the horizon and the Fade is infinite. If you think about it that way, there’s only one way to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm obsessed with the idea of Hawke being stuck in the Fade and trying to find a way out. It's not going to be easy for him because he always winds up getting stuck on some kind of Quest along the way ~~and also because I'm evil and want to make him suffer a bit~~.
> 
> I happened to be reading The Odyssey when I got the idea for this fic. I think Odysseus is a lot like Hawke, especially when all the guy wants is to go the fuck home but then Adventures happen and stuff.
> 
> POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: Mild hint of suicidal thinking, but nothing happens.  
> 

Hawke is heartily sick of the Fade. Dreaming every night is one thing but there are only so many strange little things he can amuse himself by imagining into being. A pitcher of water spills out like a fountain and thinking about a bed conjured up a strange metal contraption he’s convinced is some kind of torture device. Nothing ever turns out the way it should and most of it is creepy enough that he actually looks forward to the demons. At least there’s some real creativity there.

Case in point: the furry nug-looking creature cowering at his feet and trying to look defenseless.

“Look, you’re cute,” Hawke says, prodding it gently away from him with his staff, “but that’s not going to work on me. I know you’re a demon and I don’t want to get my face chewed off after just one cuddling session.”

Its nose quivers tragically at him.

“Aww, don’t do this to me,” Hawke says. He steps away and raises his staff, one eye squinched shut at the prospect of killing something so defenseless and… adorable. Like Merrill.

The faint curl of smoky Fade-stuff twining around it expands suddenly and rearranges itself into Aveline. Except she has vallaslin on her face, chest hair sprouting improbably from the folds of her vest, and is holding a greatsword.

“Wow. Okay, that’s…”

This must be a demon of Loneliness. Its spirit alter ego was probably Companionship, which is why it’s gotten confused about which of his friends he wants to see. It’s still the most hilarious and disgusting thing he’s seen.

Hawke’s speechless. Hawke is actually speechless. Hawke’s gibbering about himself in the third person, which he hates because Varric and Isabela had taken to annoying him with it. Hawke’s… hysterical. Great.

The Aveline lookalike stretches its mouth into an inhumanly wide grin, revealing overlapped rows of serrated teeth.

Hawke lets out a manly war cry that does not in any way make him sound like a frightened little girl, whirling the blade end of his staff forward and stabbing it in the face when it lunges towards him.

“Ugh,” he says afterwards, the dead demon at his feet and heart rabbiting in his chest. He looks down at himself and shudders, caused as much by the mess on his clothes as the disturbing form the demon took. His mouth makes a distinctively unhappy downward turn when he considers the prospect of cleaning up. Doing laundry used to be so easy – he just had to find some water and scrub the life out of the bloodstains. Now, there’s no telling if some kind of aquatic monster will leap out for his throat from the water he creates.

There’s no helping it, of course. It’s maybe-death-by-water or put up with stinking, sticky gear for however long he’s stuck here in the Fade. And it looks like it’ll be quite a while.

He raises his head and looks into the distance across the miles upon miles of barren rock, desiccated bushes, and tepid pools to a black castle. It looms ominously, even in this landscape of broken dead things.

Hawke thinks this is a story he’s read before but it’s nothing he can stop living.

 

* * *

 

The first day Hawke was stuck in the Fade, he was disappointed but still optimistic.

He grimaced, limping towards a smoothish chunk of rock jutting from the ground. It didn’t look like it’d hurt too much to lean against, so he slithered down its surface and sat there, darkly amused and staring at the perfectly Fade-chic décor of the space where there should have been an exit.

He should have expected this, really. If his luck wasn’t the very aces then it’d been clocked over the head, mugged, and left in a dirty alley in the Void to die. Hawke suspected he’d used up an entire lifetime’s worth of luck fending off Nightmare, which was now lying in a charred slag-heap at the bottom of a crater.

Anyone else would have been thrown into a fit of the dismals. Hawke was not most men. He’d beaten off darkspawn, demons, dragons, wyverns, and the Arishok. He’d taken on a First Enchanter and Templar Commander in a rousing battle that Varric turned into a bestseller. He was Garrett Hawke, bloody Champion of Kirkwall and proud brother of a tit of a Grey Warden. He had the most wonderful lover in all of Thedas waiting for him to come home.

He was going home, Maker take it all. If anyone – or anything – said differently, he’d set them on fire.

Or so he told himself.

Hawke’s bones creaked and his ribcage twinged every time he breathed even though he’d healed it. He wanted to wake up in the morning in a bed warm with sunlight and his lover’s presence, with nothing more pressing to attend to than kissing him awake and watching green eyes opening crankily. He wanted Fenris.

 _Fenris_ , he reminded himself, and pushed himself upright to look for an exit. He’d promised to come home and he’d tear an exit open with his bare hands if he had to.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Hawke gave up on counting the days. The lack of sun and moon rather killed the idea of marking time but he’d made an effort to try to dictate its passing by his sleep cycle which surprisingly, still existed. Mages in the physical world traveled the Fade nightly in their dreams, but no one thought to wonder what would happen to a mage dropped into the Fade for an extended period of time – at least, not outside the paradoxical puzzles that novice mages liked to riddle.

What happens to the mage physically in the Fade, dreaming?

He marked a scratch on his staff, one of hundreds already made. They went lengthwise and cross-wise and he was running out of space. It was disconcerting to pass a hand through his staff when he attempted to make another mark, only to remember that he was sleeping and therefore outside his body. The body that was sitting up against a craggy rock and drooling into a pauldron. He’d thought out-of-body experiences were impossible and an addict’s delirious dream before. Hawke would make a second fortune publishing what he knew about the Fade now.

He used to count the marks he made every cycle as an extra incentive for him to try harder. There were people waiting for him to come home, people who were no doubt very worried if not convinced he was dead. He didn’t think much of Carver or Fenris these days. It hurt too much.

Hawke stopped counting when he reached the thousandth mark. There were at least three times that many, now.

For a moment, he considered his staff in one hand, battered and pocked, then at the dagger in his hand.

Briefly, he wondered if he was quite ready to join the Maker’s side yet – if the Maker even existed.

But Fenris would never forgive him.

Hawke returned the dagger to its sheathe and hurled his staff as far as he could. It gave him a perverse sense of satisfaction to see the blasted thing flying away from him. Good riddance.

Then Hawke remembered that while he didn’t need a staff to cast magic, it was the only weapon he had that allowed him to poke at things from a distance.

He ran after it, swearing with choice bits of Tevene he’d picked up from Fenris in his less pleasant moods.

 

* * *

 

An interminable amount of time later, measured by an eternity’s worth of demons and spirits and Fade-inspired insanity, Hawke discovered that he was drawing closer to the creepy black spires hovering at the edge of the horizon, which any mage with a smattering of education knew was the Black City. He’d indulged in a mild fit once he’d realized where he was headed but it was no use. No matter how far he walked, he ended up right where he had last been closest to the City. The childish-looking frowny-face he’d drawn on a convenient boulder for a marker said as much.

He avoided thinking about the fireball he threw at it.

For a second time, he considered doing… something. If Corypheus was any example, he wasn’t going to like the person who the City chewed up and spit out. He had no intention of inflicting another darkspawn mage upon Thedas, thank you very much.

The only questionable benefit of getting this close to the City was the lack of powerful demons. Hawke didn’t know why, but every inhabitant of the Fade avoided the Black City if it could. It was a reasonable aversion from his point of view as a squishy human mage, but it was hard to say what motivated even the most powerful demons to act this way. Hawke had had a few close brushes with desire demons early in his journey when he was far enough from the City to attract the powerful ones, no doubt drawn to his desperation to return home.

By Hawke’s observations (as evidenced by the terrible skills of low-ranking demons with minimal intelligence trying to tempt him – see: the shark-toothed hybrid that he refused to think about), he’d entered the Fade equivalent of Darktown by now. He hadn’t seen even a single medium-strong demon for… a long time. Long enough to know he’d passed through the demonic equivalent of Hightown and Lowtown long since. It was both utterly dull and something of a relief to know that the worst he had to deal with now was stabbing things in the face rather than setting them on fire repeatedly. Even though he did kind of miss setting a demons ablaze and watching them run around screaming.

Hawke was so bored that he almost wanted to face off with Nightmare again, but then he reminded himself that it would mean standing toe-to-toe with desire demons again. He’d never fall for their imitations of Fenris – it was like eating the best apple tart in the world, only to be offered a Darktown swindler’s knock-off every day after – but he _missed_ seeing any aspect of Fenris outside of his own memories. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t give for just a glimpse, no matter how terrible an imitation it was. That was the temptation.

But he’d made a promise. It might take an eternity, but Hawke was going to keep trying to go home, demon or no demon. There was no other option.

Then he found a circular platform of polished stone, looking very out of place among the dusty dry and wrecked landscape of the Fade. One statue stood at the edge, a carved bull with its horns lowered and ready for combat. Its eyes glowed with terrible light but it stood quiescent even when Hawke stepped cautiously in range and poked at it. It was looking straight at an object inserted in the middle of the circle, stabbed vertically into the ground.

Latent energy thrummed in the space, underneath the stone at his feet and from the bull, but strongest of all from the staff at the center of the circle.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh, Fenris doesn't show up this chapter? I swear he'll show up eventually. ~~But Hawke's gotta go through his manpain first mwahahaha~~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed to do quite a bit of research and set some things up in this chapter. I wrote more than I planned. More about it in the Endnotes.

Hawke sits in front of the staff. His legs are crossed and his fingers drum a steady beat on his knee. It’s as much from irritation as serious thought. When he’d come across this strange staff-in-a-circle (and yes, it reminds him an awful lot of this one story he loved as a child about a boy pulling a sword from a rock) and that frankly unnerving bull, he’d investigated a little. Not enough to be incautious of course, but also not long enough for him to conclude anything other than Bad News. His finely-honed danger instincts were tingling and he always listened to them.

When he didn’t, things like a one-on-one duel with the Arishok and Anders blowing up the Chantry happened.

(Or so he once claimed to Fenris. They were on the run and he’d taken to drinking with the locals every once in a while to trawl for information, a handy skill he picked up from Varric. He’d come back to their room slightly tipsy and ready to sleep it off, but instead ended up sprawled face-down on the bed, rambling about his terrible life decisions. Fenris watched his progress with silent amusement, a finger holding his place in his book before he closed it to sit next to him, running a hand through his hair. ‘Excessive trust in our friends’ sanity is the more likely culprit,’ Fenris said, not ungentle. Then he added drily, ‘Or perhaps it’s your chronic state of inebriation.’ At that, Hawke dragged him down beside him, grumbling about the indignity of it all. Not that he was serious – he was far more intent on pressing his lips to the curve of his throat, to feel his trembling laughter.)

Hawke shoves the memory away.

When it feels like he can breathe again, he leans just slightly to the right to peer past the staff at the bull’s unnaturally glowing eyes.

“All right, I’ll bite,” he says, voice rough. And what of it? Getting a frog in your throat isn’t a phenomenon limited to the physical world. “What am I here for? I’m getting tired of this merry little chase towards nowhere except certain doom,” meaning the spooky black city always hovering in sight, “even if you aren’t. I’ll make it clear right now – I refuse to become an abomination.”

The pointed finger he shakes at the statue is met with inhuman indifference and a touch of condescension at his silly human antics. No answers from that source. Not that he expected any after attempting to run away the day before and getting dumped right back here again.

Sighing, he turns back to scrutinizing the staff. Honestly, it looks more like an old man’s walking stick than anything used for augmenting magic. Glossy, well-worn wood twists naturally into a complicated knot at the top where it was polished and rounded for a palm to rest comfortably against. Nothing unusual about it at all.

He cocks his head to the side for a moment, studying it. Then he reaches out a hand.

“This is a very bad idea,” he tells himself even as his fingers close around the wood.

Nothing happens.

“… Didn’t expect that,” he admits. He nudges the staff a bit to see if it’ll give. Nothing again. It’s as though it was poured into the stone.

Hawke sits back and looks towards the bull.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m a mage. We’re not a very muscle-y people,” he says defensively. “It’s not like I can pull that thing up from where it’s stuck, even if I had Aveline’s biceps.”

The bull looks judgmentally at his own not inconsiderable biceps, which Hawke has been told look very out of place on a mage. Everyone looks at him funny when he says he’s fragile and needs protection. Even his mabari, who is otherwise the most loyal dog a man could ask for.

Not that he really needs protection, mind you. It’s simply good sense to have someone around to take some of the heat off him at the point when their enemies decide they might live longer if they kill him off first.

Though as he recalls, that… isn’t much of an issue either. Maker bless the crusty old thing who’d chosen to retire and settle down in Lothering. Serah Bridget had an unfortunately androgynous name that no one dared tease him about on account of having the temper of a hungry dragon and captain-class skills in armaments. As a boy, Hawke had stalked and nagged at him until he caved and finally condescended to drill the fundamentals of staff and polearm fighting into his tender young head. He kept up with practice and was just as surprised as anyone when his growth spurt hit and he came out the other side looking like ‘a brick shithouse.’ Varric’s words, not his. All he noticed at the time was a sudden predilection for bumbling painfully into table corners or barking his shins on all sorts of poky things that were decidedly not where he remembered them. Oh, and being on the end of Carver’s sulking for _months_. ~~~~

And that’s not counting his magic. Not that he could have used it openly back in Lothering – he might as well have screamed ‘secret apostate!’ to all of Thedas – or later in the glorious city of Kirkwall, crawling with Templars and every single one of them capable of smiting him to the Void and back.

…Damn it, he’s losing an argument against _himself_.

“Fine, you have a point,” he concedes grumpily to the bull, before sighing and turning to examine the staff again. Right. This problem that refuses to let him go until he solves it, otherwise dooming him to an eternity of the same unchanging and ugly scenery.

Then he gets a brilliant idea.

It’s very obviously a staff, so why not do the obvious?

Ignoring the second twinge of warning from his gut, he closes his hand around the wood and channels his mana into it.

The stone platform vibrates violently, the magic in and around the space ratcheting up to a palpable fever. Hawke tries to let go but he’s frozen in place. His hand won’t leave the staff and his mana is continually drawn in to fuel the reaction regardless of his will. He’s helpless, watching as light surrounds the stone circle like a ward, throwing up opaque walls that meet over his head in a dome. Colors coruscate faintly with an iridescent sheen, though it’s nothing to what is taking place beneath Hawke’s feet.

It was too faint for him to have seen it earlier, but there are numerous circles etched into the stone in interlocking patterns and edged with sigils. It reminds him of nothing more than the insides of some enormous clock or machine, gears and cogs turning at different speeds but towards a unified purpose. Now the circles are filling, light running through the etched grooves like quicksilver, and each completed circle activates and _moves_.

It would be awe-inspiring if it weren’t so terrifying.

Hawke can’t move. Hawke, great numpty that he is, activated a mysterious magic circle in the Fade without knowing what it does. Hawke can’t move a bloody _finger._

Hawke is an _idiot._

(yes, Fenris darling, I know, so please stop repeating that word. It’s very hurtful to my feelings and professional pride. I won’t spontaneously combust and leave this world bereft of my fine ass in some magic experiment gone wrong. What? Of course I won’t ‘splatter,’ why would you even – Oh. I see. Well, Fenris, I can assure you I’m nothing like that bastard you neatly plucked the heart out of. I know you’re worried about me, but I promise I’ll be careful. _I promise_.)

…and he’s also kind of a mess.

Okay. A lot of a mess.

Hawke’s writing his final will and testament in his head in between bouts of gibbering terror when the vibrations and the lightshows just… stop. The colors dull to a golden glow and the movements of the magic circle slow to a steady rotation that reminds Hawke of a sedate waltz.

He’s a little confused. The part of him that’s still able to catalogue all the fascinating new magic going on around him also notes that none of this feels particularly bad. Nothing gives him that worms-crawling-out-of-grave-dirt sensation he’d gotten from Corypheus or the general needles-pain- _ow_ ones he’d gotten from blood mages.

It just feels old. And powerful.

Hawke still isn’t able to move.

Then suddenly, colors revive from the pale gold and spread from the top of the dome down like rain washing down glass.

 

* * *

 

Hawke gawps like the bumpkin he never was.

He can’t help it; what else is a man to do when you seem to have been instantaneously transported to a thriving city?

It’s bustling and absolutely radiant, clean pale stone under his feet and buildings soaring up towards the blue sky. The streets are crowded with merry, chattering people. He brightens immediately and approaches a nearby pedestrian for conversation, but then he notices the unfamiliar clothes they’re wearing. It reminds him a little of the Tevinter fashion, honestly. The women wear long bolts of fabric that loop over their shoulders and chests to hang down to their feet, cinched by thin, intricate belts decorated with precious stones or small glass beads hanging in a fringe, clacking musically with every move. The shawls are broad, servicing as cloak and coat both – some girls pull theirs over their heads like a hood to hide from the heat of the noonday sun. The men favor loose, baggy trousers and embroidered tunics with cloaks or sashes wrapped or tucked into their leather belts. Everyone he sees has a dagger hanging at their side, a graceful curve to it that he’s never seen before. He watches as a fruit merchant pulls one out by its ludicrously decorated hilt and slice a melon in half, revealing the sweet rosy flesh inside to a prospective customer.

While Hawke has never been to Tevinter, he’s seen enough visitors in Kirkwall – not to mention what he recognizes from his own readings and the occasional candid account when Fenris can bring himself to speak of his experience – to know what the Imperium looks like. He is not in the Imperium.

He is not in Thedas.

Hawke takes a deep breath and allows himself to clench his fists, if only briefly. Even if it feels like someone dropped his stomach down a cliff. Then he makes the conscious effort to loosen them again. Brooding’s only ever been an attractive look for one person in his acquaintance and he’s not here right now.

Instead, he takes a closer look at his surroundings. Vibrant, almost gaudy stalls are draped with all manner of colored fabrics and line the street in neat rows. Nearly everyone carries some sort of basket or bag, so it’s probably a market of some sort. A handy place to quietly eavesdrop.

Hawke is on board with this plan because it’s something that won’t involve acknowledging the slightly hysterical voice lurking at back of his mind that keeps nattering on and on uselessly about things like _am I dead_ or _by Andraste’s bountiful bosom what did that magic circle **do**_ and also _where in the ever-loving fuck am I_.

He’s so busy thinking that he doesn’t react in time to dodge the boy running down the street in his direction. His hands are automatically outstretched to brace himself but then the boy runs _through_ him.

Heart in his throat, Hawke directs a slightly wild look at his torso – very solid-looking and the view partially obstructed by his ridiculous metal chest plate – and back at the boy, who also looks very solid indeed and not in the least disturbed that he ran through someone.

Gingerly, Hawke attempts to touch a nearby shopper.

“Pardon me…?” he tries, reaching out. His hand passes through without resistance and the woman continues forward, talking about the rising prices of cabbages with her friend.

Hawke looks down at his hand.

Well.

On the bright side of things, it’s probably good that he didn’t make contact. The woman is very sparkly and looks like she’s wearing all the jewelry in her family’s coffers. If he’d drawn her attention, he’d doubtless be hauled into jail for attempted theft. As it is, she has no idea that a strange man attempted to put a hand on her arm and Hawke is not going to be sent to prison. Actually, do they even have prisons here? What is this place, exactly?

Before his mind starts wandering in earnest, he marshals together his thoughts like unruly sheep and stuffs them in a pen. Right. List of facts that he can build a decision from.

Fact one: he’s been dumped by the magic circle back into civilization. Somehow.

Fact two: he’s been dumped into a civilization he doesn’t recognize.

Fact three: he’s been dumped into a place where no one notices him and he’s apparently as incorporeal as a ghost.

Conclusion: he is fucked.

Hawke smacks his forehead into his palm and grits his teeth against the rising anger and frustration at himself.

He’s distracted by the distinctive, mournful call of a horn blaring in the distance, a second cry drawing near. It echoes through the market and people scatter to the sides, leaving him standing in the middle of the street. Hawke doesn’t bother to move – if he’s invisible and porous as cheesecloth, there’s no point in abandoning the perfect view he’s about to have of whatever’s coming along.

The procession winding its way down the gentle slope of cobblestone is small, only six people on foot without any rank or file. The three men and three women passing underneath the stone archway leading into the market place look tired, their clothes dusty and crinkled, but their steps are firm. They’re obviously close – he sees one man with a curious necklace crack a joke that makes his companion roll her eyes and jab him unmercifully in the stomach. The others laugh and he scowls without any real offense.

Hawke remembers the easy camaraderie he shared with his own friends with a pang.

The near-deafening cheers from the crowds suggest they’re important, so Hawke trails after them to investigate, inconsequential as a summer breeze.

“You’re terrible. No one likes you,” says the woman with the pointy elbow. He kind of likes her – her simple cheer and the way she has of innocently stating the truth reminds him of Merrill. A less naïve Merrill who’s positively drowning in ribbons, but still.

“But who else is going to tell the truth in this bunch?” The man, rubbing at his tender stomach, gestures wildly at the rest, who have turned to watch his antics with amusement. “You can’t expect Daren to say anything mean – he’s far too diplomatic.”

“Thank you,” the dark-haired man responds mildly.

“And, and Leticia! She’s far too much of a hag!”

“Who’re you calling a hag, scumbag!” she yells, kicking the mouthy fellow in the shin.

“Ow that hurt, you bitch!” he says, hopping madly on one leg and glaring. “This is why you’re never going to get married. You’re such a damn harpy.”

“Say that to my face one more –“ she begins, but is restrained by the gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Children,” interjects a disappointed voice – Hawke feels like he’s all of ten years old and just blew up the stove again, even if it’s not directed at him – “Settle down.”

“Oh yeah?” sniffs the problem child, glancing warily back at the lady. “Whatcha gonna do?”

She smiles the creepiest fucking smile Hawke has ever seen.

The nitwit blanches and backpedals rapidly. “Uh, right. Right!” he squawks, voice shooting up a clear octave.

The girl from earlier – young woman, really – snorts. She’s not particularly successful at hiding her laughter because her sleeve seems to be made of nothing but ribbons and it’s nowhere near enough to hide the perk of her lips.

“Give it up, Rass,” she says, giving up on concealing her grin. “You shouldn’t call Leticia bad names. Don’t think you’re going to win against Gloria either.”

‘Rass’ sulks.

“Behave,” intones another voice, but there’s so much humor in it that it’s not much of a reprimand at all. The man is decked with so much gold that Hawke’s almost blinded by the glare it produces under the high noon sun. Even his teeth glint, white and even.

Vaguely, he wonders if he’s related to Isabela.

The creepy smile lady from earlier smiles at him much more normally. “Don’t tease them too much, dear.”

His smirk dissolves into something ten times soppier. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

The younger members of the party make gagging noises when they kiss. Judging by how convincing their act is, it seems like public displays of affection are a common occurrence.

“Milords! Miladies!” comes a shout, and the moment of affection is broken. They turn to the messenger racing towards them. She skids to a halt before them, grinning as she sketches a quick bow. Then she pulls a scroll from her satchel and hands it over with a respectful, “It’s for you, Lord Iskandar.”

Iskandar pulls at one of his gold earrings thoughtfully but he smiles easily when he drops a few coins in the girl’s hand and she dashes off again, the bag full of deliveries bouncing on her hip.

“Mail?” asks Leticia curiously. “I wasn’t aware there was any pressing business when we left.”

Gloria warmly pats her arm. “There wasn’t any, as you well know. You worked very hard to help us clear our schedules for this trip together. We appreciate it.”

Leticia blushes.

“What is it then?” asks Daren, who has angled his long body to lean over inquisitively. “It must be important if the runner couldn’t wait till we’re back in the tower.”

Iskandar smiles again, though this time it’s a little smug. He unrolls it, scanning the contents swiftly, then he adjusts his pack to make room for it. The rest of the group waits patiently for him to speak, but he just continues to smile.

Finally, Rass, who appears to be the most hotheaded of the bunch in Hawke’s estimation, breaks the silence.

“ _Come on_ ,” he almost whines.

“Patience, youngling,” intones Iskandar, but he fails to suppress his laughter when the young man falls into sulking again. Maker, does this Rass remind Hawke of his tit brother before he’d sorted himself out. “I’ll tell you all the news once we’re home, inside the tower. It’s a bit sensitive.”

“Good news, is it? Does it have anything to do with the medical advancements Mary’s been babbling about lately?” Daren asks. The girl with the ribbons – Mary – sticks out her tongue at him.

“My research has been going _very_ well,” she says, puffing up in pride, “but no, there’s nothing new on my end. I would have told you all about it already. It must be our leader’s secret project.”

“It must be. I’ve heard nothing about it either,” Gloria agrees. She’s truly a lovely woman when she isn’t being passive-aggressively intimidating. It’s something about her smile. Hawke’s father used to say that he fell in love with Leandra because of her smile. “Please do tell us about it when we’re home. It must be wonderful.”

Iskandar wraps an arm around her and presses her close to his side. “It’s fantastic. Just as soon as we’re back, I promise.”

Leticia, poor girl, has been vibrating in silent excitement all the while. Even the long braid down her back appears to quiver.

“I hope it’s soon,” says Rass. “I think Leticia’s having trouble holding it in.”

She steps on his foot and the rest of the journey is filled with his yowling curses, most of them creative enough to give Isabela a run for her ship.

Hawke shakes his head ruefully and follows along.

 

‘Home’ is apparently a tower so tall that the tip temporarily disappears when a passing cloud comes in contact up in the stratosphere. It’s made of stone similar to the other buildings in the city but the gleaming golden-white sheen of it is more luminescent, like comparing ivory to a pearl. Something about it is familiar but Hawke can’t quite put a finger on why. He has to abandon that train of thought to focus on following the group inside. He has no intention of testing his ghostly abilities against anything as impermeable as metal gates.

An hour or so later after they agree to separate to freshen up and reconvene, Hawke is loitering uncomfortably outside Iskandar and Gloria’s shared quarters (he never thought he’d feel sorry for Templars, but there are some things he could do without knowing). He’s greatly relieved when they finally emerge, trailing after them when they head to some sort of drawing room where the others are already waiting.

Rass immediately jumps up from his seat, throwing a book and an apple askew in his haste. “Now will you tell us what the secret is?” he complains.

“You slob!” hisses Leticia, whose perfect brunette beauty is ruined by the way her face is twisted in disgust. She was calm enough when talking to the other girl, Mary, so Hawke supposes she just has something of a groat to settle with Rass. To be fair, the boy does seem to make it his life’s goal to irritate her.

Iskandar grins, motioning them to sit down. There aren’t any chairs, only great mounds of pillows for them to recline on and thick, colorful rugs spread underneath them. It looks incredibly luxurious and Hawke immediately tries to sit down and lounge, only he ends up flat on his back and staring disconcertingly at the insides of a cushion.

He doesn’t try it again, though it doesn’t stop him from throwing looks of envy at the ungrateful buggers taking their comforts for granted.

“I have, in fact, been working on a secret project as many of you have guessed,” Iskandar says, pouring out cups of some steaming beverage from a porcelain teapot at his elbow, handing them out courteously. He breathes deeply and takes a sip from his own cup with a happy sigh. “I wasn’t sure if it wasn’t going to work, to be honest. I only received news today that it’s possible.”

“Stop being a show pony and get on with it,” Rass snaps.

Daren, who has been quiet so far, breaks into a violent fit of coughing.

“What’s wrong with you?” frowns Rass, but Daren just waves him off, a hand over his mouth.

“Continue, please,” he says. “Don’t mind my fits.”

Rass looks at him suspiciously for a minute, but seems to decide he’s telling the truth and drops the subject to refocus on Iskandar, who hastily rearranges his face.

“So?” demands Rass. “What is it?”

Eyes twinkling, Iskandar spreads his arms like a – well, a showman. “I’ve discovered a way to eliminate death.”

Complete, utter silence.

Rass twirls a finger in his ear, then cups a hand around it.

“I must be hearing things,” he says conversationally. “Could you repeat that?”

Iskandar laughs, patting him on the back so strongly that the younger man is almost launched face-first into his tea. “No, my friend, you heard rightly.”

“B-But…” Leticia goggles. “That’s impossible!”

“That’s what I thought too.”

Mary is frowning, but she doesn’t outright denounce it. “I haven’t looked into that possibility with my medical research, but are you sure? You’re not a mage, you know.”

“I’m positive,” affirms Iskandar. “And as you so astutely pointed out, I’m not a mage but I have a very talented team of spirit healers and arcane masters in my department. They checked into it for me and they’ve sworn up and down that it’s entirely achievable. I believe them.”

“Thorion and Kassian’s division, right?”

“Yes. You know how picky they are with results.”

Mary withdraws into her own thoughts. “I suppose…” she mutters, the glow of happiness peeking through the cloak of her disbelief as she ponders. “It would make such a difference.”

Gloria is outright beaming, clasping her husband’s hand in both of her own. “Truly?”

“My dear, when have I ever lied to you?”

“No one has to be sad again,” Leticia says wonderingly. “We can save the people we’ve lost during the monster attacks, and hunting, and everything.”

“What’s the catch?”

It cuts through the happy glow like an axe.

Mary’s expression clears up. “That’s true. We have the magic for it, surely, but there must be a trade-off somewhere. Rass is right.”

They all look to Iskandar, who’s still smiling serenely. He shrugs.

“I was getting to that. We’d have to ask everyone what they think first, of course, but the price is quite a small thing compared to what we’re getting. I won’t get into the theory – it doesn’t make much sense to me, you’ll have to ask Kassian for the details – but all we need to give up is the ability to have children.”

Hawke remembers his mother telling them all how happy she was to have them, how glad she was when she and Father had planned on a second child only to receive two bundles of joy: Bethany and Carver. He remembers sharing in that joy even if he was too young to understand much more than knowing that he had _two_ little siblings to play with and to protect now, not just one. He’d wanted to be the best older brother ever.

And how it had all turned to ash.

“We haven’t had a new birth in – oh, forever,” Daren says.

“We do live quite long, don’t we?” agrees Mary. “I can’t remember my birthday most of the time. I have to count it up on my fingers or use a calendar.”

“So we’re all hags and old men, what does that matter?” Rass scowls. “It’s nothing to be a thousand years old. Iskandar’s ancient. You’re in your hundred-thousands or something, aren’t you?”

“That’s just rude,” Iskandar says, “but yes. I’m not that old, you know. Nicrita is well into his millennia.”

“I can’t imagine anyone thinking of that as much of a price to pay at all,” smiles Gloria. “No one will object. It’s perfect.”

Hawke is still trying to process the fact that these people have natural lifespans stretching into the hundred-thousands, much less willingly giving up the ability to procreate when Rass speaks again.

“I don’t think so.”

“What! Why?!” Mary says, shocked.

Rass wrinkles his brows, looks thoughtful in a way that settles oddly on his face. It makes him look years older and it’s suddenly easier to see why he would be one of the leaders of this city despite the juvenile behavior he’s shown so far. “It’s not natural.”

“That’s not much of an explanation.” Leticia takes a sip of her tea.

He heaves a sigh and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Look, I’m a mage, okay? And I know that this isn’t exactly my specialty. It’s more Mary’s kind of thing and she’s got that project of hers that she keeps talking about. But I _am_ good with magic and I do know what I’m talking about when I say that you’re messing with something you don’t understand.”

“Explain,” she demands, her attention suddenly honed to a razor’s edge, her tea forgotten. Rass flushes suddenly, ducking his head down and clearing his throat.

“So, it’s like this. The world is kind of like a rug, like the one we’re sitting on.” He points at the ornate monstrosity beneath them, edged in a floral border and graduating into sharp, repeated geometric designs in the center. “There are things that make it a rug, things we know. It’s fuzzy, it’s made of threads, we sit on it, it’s got a specific pattern, and so on. What you’re trying to do is pull out one of the things that make it a rug and still call it a rug.”

“…It’s just one thing, though. How is that going to make it suddenly _not_ a rug?” Leticia says incredulously. “And what’s with that example?”

“Hey, it’s the best I could do,” protests Rass. “Do you _want_ me to blather on about dimensions and all that? Last time I tried, you all went to sleep on me!”

“Rass, but think of what we can do,” Mary exclaims, hugging his arm. “No more death! No more funerals!”

Leticia frowns when Mary launches herself at Rass, but the man himself just rolls his eyes. He pats her on the head and gently disentangles himself.

“Look, I’d like that too. I just really don’t think it’s going to happen.”

Mary pouts at him until he smiles somewhat reluctantly. Mission accomplished, she hops over to where the others are sitting, avidly discussing their plans.

His face falls into a frown again as soon as she leaves. Leticia seems to be the only one to notice and she makes her way quietly to his side.

“You really don’t think it’ll work,” she says. It’s not a question.

Startled, Rass blinks a little when he notices her. “Hmm?” He makes an effort to recall her question. “Oh. No, I don’t think it’ll work. Or rather, it’s not _impossible_ but I don’t want to know what’s going to happen if we actually try it.”

She smiles suddenly, surprising him into a flush that spreads faintly across his tanned skin. It’s like watching a lily bloom, or watching the stars in an oasis on a clear desert night. For once, her voice is teasing rather than outraged.

“Don’t be so pessimistic, Rass.” With an impish wink, she moves to take her place next to Mary, the two girls bending their heads together as they talk.

Rass doesn’t look reassured, though he’s a little less gloomy after Leticia’s intervention. He sighs, seemingly giving up on working against the tide.

“This isn’t going to end well,” Rass mutters, but stands up to join the others and it’s on that note that the world around Hawke shimmers, all the color falling away to reveal the bleak landscape of the Fade again.

He blinks a little, slowly withdrawing his hand from the staff.

Exhaling carefully, he raises his eyes to the ever-present, hulking monolith that is the Black City. Sometimes it looks like it’s projecting from the land, built on a mountaintop. Sometimes it looks like it’s floating midair on a displaced island. But the sight of it is unmistakable. Something about the shape of it, the distinctive cast of the tallest spire.

“Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that Hawke is a dorky nerd at heart and loves to play around with magic. Malcolm Hawke had a terrible time trying to get his son to behave. The entire time he’s going, ‘Garrett, _no_ ,’ and then his kid pulls off some reputedly impossible thing with magic that makes him wish he’d thought of it first. Then he and his son decide to experiment some more in the manner of true researchers ~~incurable magic nerds~~ until Leandra yells at them to come to dinner right now or _no dessert_.
> 
> I researched a bit about staves, polearms, and spears. Amazingly, staves caused more deaths than even knives or swords in the Middle Ages. It was a very cheap weapon with a lot of oomph per stick. So Hawke hauling around a staff actually isn’t unusual if he kept a lid on his magic, which in my opinion he did. He managed it just fine for all his Kirkwall years until the fight against the Arishok – he’d gotten stabbed in the stomach and waved around in the air like a shish-kebab. You know that sequence. Hawke had to take a moment to patch himself up enough so his intestines weren’t falling out before finishing off the Arishok. That’s how Meredith found out he was a mage.
> 
> All of my digging on the Dragon Age wiki wouldn’t tell me if magic circles exist in DA canon _at all_ so just assume that they do. They’re generally considered antiquated and largely useless since they take ages to set up and use. More on this stuff next chapter. ^_-
> 
> Golden City fashions are a mix of random bits of Assyrian/Babylonian and Persian couture. I thought they looked cool? XD


End file.
